Faramir and Peregrin
by Drollittle
Summary: Come! Let the song begin, Tooks are fond of singing. Paths lead young and old, jolly friendships bringing!
1. You Come Too

"Fall-der-all the riddle-o' the re-do, fa la la, the riddle o' the day."

"What is thirty-five divided by seven?" Diamond Took asked her son, Faramir, as they chopped carrots early one autumn afternoon.

In his mind he started counting out sevens: 7, 14, 21,...

"...Eleven nine seven five three and one! Fall-der-all the riddle o' the re-do..." sang out his little sister Fimbrethil as she played with the cat, and Faramir lost count.

"I don't know."

"Keep trying, if there are 35 hobbits at a party and seven cakes, how many pieces should you cut each cake into?"

Faramir actually liked mathematics, but he replied cheekily, "just cut them in eight or ten and let everyone take what they please."

Diamond countered, "What if someone doesn't get as much as the others?"

"Then they were too slow!" said Faramir, and dodged a playful swoosh with a kitchen towel.

"How about this, Ferry: there are seven wolves at the border, and the Thain has 35 soldiers. How many should he send after each wolf?"

Now that was a pressing question! Faramir began counting again: 21, 28...

"Daddy, daddy! There are thirty-five wolves at the border and you have seven soldiers!" Shouted Fimbrethil happily as her father, Peregrin Took, came in. He scooped her up and looked at Diamond with mild concern.

She smiled and shook her head, "Mathematics. How was your morning?"

"Well enough. Harvest Inventories...Trade reports...lots of mathematics." He said.

"It's good of you to help Samwise with all of that."

"I don't mind, as long as there aren't thirty-five wolves at the border!"

"Sit down and have some tea!"

"I'll take a butter roll, thank you darling, but then I'm going out to clear the pasture spring."

"Couldn't Pete do it?" she asked. The Took and Thain didn't often do his own yard work, not because Peregrin cared about his status, but because his civil duties left him little time. Every now and then, though, it was refreshing to give his mind a rest and use his muscles.

"I need the fresh air." He said through a mouthful of butter roll. "I will take a couple more of these in my pockets though."

Peregrin saw Faramir's disappointed look, "I'll only stop to rake the leaves away. I shan't be gone long." Then he considered, and said, "you come, too."

Faramir gave the carrots a final victory chop, grabbed two butter rolls, and rushed to the coat-hooks for his jacket and bag.

Diamond picked up a blue ceramic bowl from the counter and handed it to Peregrin with a kiss. "Would you like to ride over and return this to Merry and Estella? I'm sure they would welcome you for dinner. Ferry, put on a scarf and hat. Off you go, lads, be home for supper!"

As he left the kitchen, Faramir called back, "Five!"

**notes**:

The "fall-der-all" counting song is a folk song. I don't know a source for it.

Credit to Robert Frost's "Pasture" poem for some of Pippin's dialogue.

Credit to Tolkien, obviously.

Fimbrethil is the name of Treebeard's entwife. Since Pippin names his son after someone amazing from his adventures, I thought he should name his daughter likewise.

I haven't abandoned "Eldarion Dwarfed." It still has a couple chapters coming; I have just been more excited about this one :)


	2. Races and Chases

Peregrin and Faramir Took headed through the tunnels of the Great Smials. Peregrin called to Pete to saddle their ponies. They stopped in the gardens to pick up two rakes, thanked Pete and rode out to the pasture where a spring flowed into a small stream. It was clogged with wet leaves, and father and son talked as they cleared it.

"Frodo Gamgee said there have been more wolves crossing the south marshes."

"A few more, don't worry too much."

"How many hobbits does it take to drive off a wolf?"

"Depends on how they're armed, their skills, how they're organized, the terrain... One good archer from a good position could send a wolf packing, but most of the South-farthing hobbitry are farmers."

"What do they do?"

"Oh, the best they can. Come indoors at night and shelter their livestock...a good few are heeding the word to keep their bows ready, but not that fellow last week whose pigs got dragged off... I wrote to King Aragorn for advice but haven't heard back yet...not that it's serious enough to bother the King about, I just write to him now and then, and I mentioned it. Now don't go spreading rumors and getting people worried, please, Ferry. Just make sure you and your friends are all back to your holes before dark." Then Peregrin began talking about Diamond's plans for their fall harvest and they daydreamed about jams and pies until the spring was free of leaves and bubbling freely along to its irrigation routes.

The sun was still high when they refilled the water flasks in their bags and prepared to ride to Buckland to return the bowl and visit Merry's family.

Peregrin swung up on his pony, holding his rake up like a standard, and challenged Faramir to race him to Frogmorton. The Thain was off. Laughing, Faramir grabbed his bag and followed. Near the Smials they tossed their rakes to the side of the road to retrieve on their return. Thanks to their friends in Rohan they rode two of the finest and fastest ponies in the Shire (after Master Brandybuck's, of course). Faramir rode with determination, even though he was hopelessly behind, and every quarter mile or so Peregrin had to slow to let him catch up. They shouted over the clatter of their ponies' hooves, and kicked up mud and grass along their way.

"Tooks..." grumbled respectable hobbits they passed, though inwardly they suspected that without the Tooks to stir things up, they might still be working the mills and machines of Sharkey and cringing under his big ruffians.

Peregrin let Faramir pull ahead for a tantalizing moment as they approached Frogmorton, and then urged his own pony forward and claimed an indisputable win. After a short rest they continued at a more relaxed pace over the bridge to Buckland.

The blue bowl was delivered to Estella and dinner with the Brandybucks was enjoyable as always. Peregrin knew they ought to start for home, but agreed to stay for one song. Merry suggested one of Bilbo's, and Estella asked Faramir if he had his wood flute with him and knew the tune.

Faramir played willingly and well, though he wondered why music had to follow meals immediately; taking a good breath to blow on the flute was considerably harder with a full stomach.

There was a chill breeze in the afternoon air as they departed. Their ponies were ready by the gate, and Peregrin mounted, but Faramir set down his bag to tighten his jacket and scarf.

"Hurry, Ferry, or I may win again!"

Again, Peregrin started to race ahead. Eager to catch up, Faramir reached down to where he had set his bag. It was gone. He looked around, bewildered, and saw his bag bouncing across the grass in the mouth of a large brown weasel!

"Stop!"

The weasel looked around at Faramir, swished its tail haughtily, and ran off holding the bag high. Faramir's flute, apples, pocketknife and all were swiftly disappearing. Faramir started in pursuit, ignoring his pony's questioning whinny.

The weasel slid under a fence at the edge of the Brandy Hall property and scampered into the neighbor's herb garden, but then dropped the bag and paused to lick itself. Faramir was resolved to catch it, and he ducked under the fence. Before he was within four feet of it, however, the weasel snatched the bag and was moving again.

They trampled through the garden, raising shouts from an elderly hobbit at the window, but the weasel didn't slow down so neither did Faramir.

Faramir was close; it seemed that the weasel's black-tipped tail was just inches from his reach, and yet it kept scurrying ahead.

The animal made a jump over a ditch, and now Faramir barely hesitated before jumping over after.

The weasel checked to see if it was still being followed.

It ran across a potato field, tail teasing.

Hop! They weaved through rows of corn.

Duck! Under another fence.

Rush! Past a burrow door.

Slide! Down a slippery bank.

Splash! Into a shallow stream, and scramble-up the bank again.

Charge! Through bushes and gardens and fields, and Faramir didn't pause to consider that he would be utterly lost when-or if-he ever did catch up with his bag!

The weasel whisked through a hole in a hedge, flicking that furry black-tipped tail. Faramir knelt down to look through. The seemingly tireless creature had finally stopped and dropped the bag. Indeed, it seemed barely interested in its loot now and was wandering away, sniffing the ground. Now, if Faramir could squeeze through the hole, he could surely get his things back.

A small hobbit is barely bigger than a large weasel, and the hedge let him through with only a few scratches. At last his bag was in reach! Faramir ran toward it, but the weasel had other ideas. Scurry and snatch! Faramir yelled in exasperation as the chase began once again.

This time, after only a few minutes' run, the weasel dropped Faramir's bag in the dirt and disappeared into a thick bramble.

A vehement "Ha!" was all Faramir had the breath to shout at the furry thief. He picked up his bag and looked around him.

Brown and orange leaves on mossy branches spread shadows, leaving only a few patches of sinking sunlight.

**note**:

From Tuckburough to Buckland would probably be longer than a couple hours' ride...oh well!


End file.
